


The Only Song I Want to Hear

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-30
Updated: 2006-06-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 20:24:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8728894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Takes place at some point after Practical Men of the World. Seventh in the Down to the End series.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**The Only Song I Want to Hear**  
SPN Sam/Dean, 3,128 words  
  
**Notes:** [ Down to the End-verse](http://esorlehcar.livejournal.com/esorlehcar.livejournal.com/tag/down+to+the+end), takes place at some point after [Practical Men of the World](http://esorlehcar.livejournal.com/372671.html). Quick and dirty (this was supposed to be a ficlet, and is still somewhat ficlet-like, despite the length), 1,000% of the USDA recommended allowance of schmoop.  
  
For [redacted by archivist by request], who requested _jealous Sam, and angst but with an upper, reassuring ending, and if possible, swimming in the ocean._ I didn't manage the swimming, m'dear, but there is a beach -- hopefully that's enough. Thanks much to **estrella30** for a quick and thorough beta.  
  
  
  
They're in a diner when she calls. Dean is making snide comments about Sam's Cobb salad as he devours his chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes smothered in gravy, and Sam is reflecting that no one who begged to be fucked harder as shamelessly as Dean had done not three hours before is in any position to question anyone else's manhood. But he rather likes his life, bizarre and warped as it is, so he keeps the observation to himself.  
  
When the phone rings, Dean looks blankly at the display, but two point five seconds into the conversation his face lights up like a Christmas tree. "Cassie!" he says, and Sam feels a cold knot form in the pit of his stomach.  
  
***  
  
Sam learns the details slowly, drawing them from Dean over the two days it takes to drive to the Oregon coast. Cassie, it seems, has a new job. It's a little paper in a little town, but she's features editor, which, Dean assures Sam, is a step towards something big. Sam knows he's just parroting what Cassie told him, but somehow, that makes it even more annoying.  
  
She's in a beautiful old house with a view of the ocean. She loves it, and it's probably nothing, but sometimes she hears noises at night and sometimes things aren't where she left them and if Dean has the time, she'd be so grateful if he could come by and check it out. Just to be on the safe side. She can totally pay for his time.  
  
The amount she offered wouldn't even cover the gas to get there, but it hardly matters, as Dean wouldn't dream of taking it.  
  
Sam knows Dean stayed in touch with Cassie for awhile after the Cyrus Dorian hunt, and once, digging under the Impala's back seat for a missing box of bullets, he came across a book, a collection of articles by Lester Bangs. There was a note on the flyleaf -- _Dean, Here's some journalism I think you'll appreciate, Love, Cassie_ \-- and a picture pressed inside, Dean with his arms wrapped around her, their cheeks pressed together and both grinning like they were the happiest people in the world. Sam had rather liked it, at the time, liked the thought that Dean had found something so good while Sam was gone, even if it was short lived. Now the memory scrapes across his brain like fingernails on a chalkboard.  
  
He grits his teeth and stares out the window, and Dean, oblivious as always, sings along with _Master of Puppets_ at the top of his lungs, the way he only does when he's in a really good mood.  
  
***  
  
When Cassie -- slender, perfect, _gorgeous_ Cassie -- nearly disappears in his brother's arms as he envelopes her in a hug, Sam feels too tall for the first time since he outgrew Dean.  
  
They go to lunch at a little restaurant Cassie claims has the best clam chowder in the world. Cassie's done a lot in the past five years -- grad school, a year in Paris, a city beat at the _LA Times_ \-- and it doesn't seem to occur to her that maybe they've got better things to do than hear her impressions of the south of France in the springtime. Of course, if Dean's rapt expression is any indicator, they really don't.  
  
***  
  
The EMF meter doesn't make a sound when they go over the house, but they do the ritual anyway, a bit of holy water, a few herbs, a few brief incantations. When Dean tells Cassie if there was anything there, it's gone now, she hugs him again, holding on so long Sam wants to stalk over and yank them apart.  
  
She's a hopeless career gal, she says, she can't even boil an egg without nearly burning the house down, so she can't offer them a home-cooked meal as a thank you, but what would they say to dinner at the best restaurant in town?  
  
The invitation is for both of them, but she's looking at Dean, and Dean's looking at her, and Sam thinks he's going to puke if he has to watch them make eyes at each other for a second longer. He pleads a headache, says he just wants to go back to the motel to sleep. Dean looks worried, and Sam knows he could play it up, knows if he said the word Dean would postpone dinner, spend the rest of the night making sure Sam's taken care of and not say a word about it. But it feels pointless, like nothing more than delaying the inevitable, so he tells Dean he's fine, that he just needs a few Excedrin and a good night's sleep.  
  
***  
  
After Dean -- showered and freshly shaved, wearing a white dress shirt that looks better on him than anything has a right to -- leaves to pick up Cassie, Sam spends two hours tossing and turning on the hard mattress, trying not to think and unable to stop himself.  
  
They've never talked about it. There just hasn't been anyone else, since... this... started, unless you count Dean's skank-o-rama during the six months he was gone, which Sam totally doesn't. Usually. Unless Dean is being _really_ annoying. Sam's never even worried about anyone else, not really. As much as Dean flirts, at the end of the day he ends up in Sam's bed, burying himself in Sam or drawing Sam inside until they're so lost in each other they might as well be the same person. At the end of the day, there's Dean and there's Sam and there's nothing else at all. And that's just as it should be.  
  
But now there's Cassie, too. Cassie, who's beautiful and just a little wild, soft and smooth in all the places Sam is rough and hard, who fits against Dean like she was made for him. Cassie, who's the only woman Dean's ever loved. Cassie, who is throwing herself at Dean and actually managing to come off classy as she does it.  
  
Cassie, who's maybe the only person in the world who could take Dean away.  
  
Sam kicks the sheet off and sits up. He wishes he'd hadn't stayed behind -- as excruciating as it would have been watching Dean and Cassie flirt with each other all night, imagining them together is even worse. He's seen them kiss, close enough to hear Cassie's soft sigh when Dean opened her mouth with his, smelled her on Dean when Dean stumbled back into the hotel room, and the images keep playing in stereo in Sam's head. It's been years, and it should be funny, now, remembering just how closely he paid attention that long before either of them would have admitted there was any reason for the interest, but there's nothing funny about it considering where Dean is now.  
  
He climbs out of bed, stomps to the bathroom and splashes water on his face. There's no way he's going to sleep at this point, he's too keyed up to attempt anything productive, and it's late enough that the four channels the motel gets will be showing infomercials. The walls are closing in, and he needs to get the fuck out.  
  
There's a bar a few blocks over, but Sam's not sure he's up to dealing with people, especially whatever sorry specimens of humanity frequent a dive after midnight on a Tuesday night. The beach Cassie showed them earlier is only a few miles away, though, and Sam thinks maybe a walk is just what he needs.  
  
He scrawls, _Gone to the beach, be back later_ on the scratch pad on the desk. It's a stupid, hopeful gesture -- he's pretty damn sure Dean won't be back tonight -- but there's always a chance and he doesn't want Dean to worry.  
  
***  
  
It takes more than a half hour to walk, and by the time he reaches the beach he wonders what the fuck he was thinking. It's not cold, really, but it's not warm either; the wind is sharp and it cuts through Sam's hoodie like it's nothing. It's after midnight, he's exhausted, and he has a half-hour walk back before he can crawl into bed again. And just to make things perfect, he's not only weaponless, he even forgot his cell phone. Just fucking great.  
  
But somehow the thought of going back their empty room is even worse. There's a picnic table in the grass near the sand, and he sits down, feeling monumentally stupid. He's on a beach in the middle of the night, brooding over his brother like he's the heroine in every V.C. Andrews novel ever written, while Dean's off somewhere probably fucking the beautiful, glamorous love of his life. And Sam just let him go, let him go to her without even trying to stop him, and it's far too late to do anything about it now.  
  
He sighs, staring out at the water, and tries very hard to banish the visual.  
  
It's not like Dean would leave. Not really. Dean would slit his own wrists before he'd settle down and play house husband. But there's a whole lot of gray between Sam's black and Cassie's white, a whole world Dean could inhabit, staying close by, finding hunts around the Pacific Northwest, spending long weekends with Cassie while leaving Sam alone in whatever dump of a place they're currently staying in. Cassie's bucking for more than that, with her imaginary poltergeist and effusive gratefulness, but he thinks she might be willing to take what she can get. For Dean, she'd be an idiot not to.  
  
Maybe wanting Dean for himself, to the exclusion of any hope of normality, is stupid and selfish, and maybe it's optimistic to the point of ridiculous. As many years as they've been whatever it is they are, and they still don't talk about it. Still don't even have a word for it, for god's sake. But it's so much a part of Sam that he can't imagine his life without it, and he knows he can't share Dean, knows he wouldn't even if he could. He wants everything or nothing at all, and if Dean wants to give Cassie another try, it's time for this thing between them to end.  
  
Sam's stomach clenches painfully at the thought.  
  
***  
  
It's been an hour, maybe two, of serious marathon brooding when he hears a car for the first time. He turns, heart in his throat though he doesn't quite know why, and when the distinctive shape of the Impala pulls into the parking lot he simultaneously bristles and sags in relief.  
  
The car pulls up as close to the sand as possible, and Dean gets out. His face is hidden in shadow, but his stance is aggressive, his movements hard and fast. He spots Sam and starts across the grass. "What do you think you're doing?" he shouts.  
  
Sam thinks if someone's going to be pissed, it really ought to be him. He glares, but Dean's yelling again before he can form a response.  
  
"You left your phone, you left your _gun_ , you're out here completely unprotected... what the fuck, Sam?"  
  
"I needed some air," Sam says flatly.  
  
"You were supposed to be at the motel sleeping," Dean says. He's reached Sam at this point, and he towers over him, glowering down. "You know what I fucking thought when I got back and you weren't there?"  
  
"I left a note," Sam mutters.  
  
"I know, Sam," Dean says, and he sounds like he's gritting his teeth. "I found you, didn't I?" Sam shrugs, and Dean makes his stupid conflicted face, like he can't decide whether to be pissed or worried. "You gonna tell me what the hell is going on?"  
  
"Did you fuck her?" Sam says. He hates the way his voice sounds, dull and whiny, thinks that all he's doing is making Cassie look even better by comparison, but he can't stop himself.  
  
Dean looks blank. "Did I... what?" He stares at Sam for a moment, then drops to the bench beside him. "Sammy, what--"  
  
"It's a yes or no question," Sam says. "Did you?"  
  
" _No_ , Sam, christ," Dean says. "Where the hell is this--"  
  
"Are you going to?"  
  
Dean looks pissed off again, which is bad, but then his face smoothes into this awful kind of understanding, which is so much worse. "You're _jealous_?" he says. He sounds incredulous and almost amused, and Sam wants to slam a fist into his face.  
  
"Oh, fuck you, Dean," Sam spits. He starts to stand, so angry -- at Dean, at perfect, gorgeous Cassie, and mostly at himself -- that he's almost glad of the long walk back, but Dean stops him with a hard hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Will you stop?" Dean says. "Jesus, Sam, just give me a minute, would you?"  
  
"Why are you even here?" Sam says.  
  
"You're here," Dean says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Sam, you..."  
  
"I what?"  
  
"You don't," Dean says. His voice sounds odd, and his brow furrows the way it always does when he's fighting with the English language.  
  
Under other circumstances, Sam would melt a little at the sight. Cirmcumstances being what they are: "I don't _what_?"  
  
Dean takes a deep breath and starts again, looking studiously at the sand, though he keeps his hand on Sam's shoulder, holding him in place. "I don't... I mean. There isn't." He scrubs his other hand across his face and looks up, face open, eyes burning. "There's just you."  
  
Sam recognizes the tone now, that broken, raw voice he's only heard a few times in his life, the one Dean only uses when he's peeled himself open and telling far more truth than he wants to, and Sam thinks he can feel the words down to his soul. The world, so black only a few moments before, is suddenly bright and beautiful; he wants to laugh with relief, and he sort of wants to cry, and mostly he wants to pull Dean down to the grass and fuck him until the sun comes up. He says, "You promise?" instead, like he's a fucking _girl_ , and a prepubescent one at that, and he thinks he could bite his own tongue out, but Dean doesn't laugh and his gaze never wavers.  
  
"Just you, Sammy," Dean says, and his voice is so serious it makes Sam's chest ache. "You and me."  
  
Sam's eyes sting; he has to swallow before he can speak. He says, "Dean," barely a whisper, an apology and a plea both at once, and Dean says, "You're so fucking stupid," and then they're kissing and kissing and kissing.  
  
They tumble unceremoniously the ground, rolling far enough away from the table that they can stretch out comfortably. Sam gets his arms around Dean, pushing his hands up under Dean's t-shirt and stroking across the muscles of his back, while Dean pushes him onto his back and slides between his legs. They kiss until they're both gasping, and then they kiss some more, moving against each other, moaning softly into each other's mouths. When Dean pulls back to catch his breath, Sam begs, "Need you... need you, please," and he feels Dean's shudder at the words along the entire length of his body.  
  
"We can't," Dean says. His voice is dark and raspy, the way it always gets when he's turned on, and the thought that that voice is only for _him_ , that it will never be directed at anyone else, makes Sam's chest constrict, makes his cock jump against Dean's thigh. He sinks his teeth into Dean's shoulder, hard, and Dean sucks in a breath and tries again. "We can't fuck on a public beach," he says, but he doesn't sound exactly resolved, and Sam twists his hips, pressing his cock against Dean's through layers of cloth, hearing Dean's gasp in concert with his own.  
  
"It's like 2 a.m.," he says breathlessly. "It's just us, please..." and he can feel the moment when Dean breaks.  
  
Dean wrenches Sam's jeans open with practiced hands, and Sam groans in relief when Dean takes his cock in his hand. He thrusts up, wanting more, and Dean says, "I've got you, baby," and then he lowers his head and sucks Sam into his mouth. Sam cries out, loud in the still salt air, and Dean makes a soft, pleased sound, rubbing his tongue along the head. Sam bucks, and Dean just opens his throat and swallows him down.  
  
Dean doesn't tease, for once. He works Sam's cock like it's the only thing keeping him alive, moaning as he sucks, which only makes Sam hotter. Dean's unzipped his own jeans and he's stroking himself hard and gracelessly, and Sam wants to protest, wants Dean to come because of _him_ , in his ass or in his mouth or in his hand, but he's too far gone to speak.  
  
His orgasm takes him by surprise. He cries out as it rolls through him, and the choked, hungry little noise Dean makes as he pulls back far enough to catch Sam's come on his tongue is almost too much to take. He says, "Dean, Dean," and Dean shudders and comes, face twisting and body spasming.  
  
They don't move for long moments. Dean holds Sam in his mouth, sighing contentedly as he nurses out the last drops, and when he finally pulls away, he presses a soft little open-mouthed kiss against the head, laughing quietly when Sam shudders. Most of Dean's come spilled into the grass beside them, but when Dean moves up to kiss him, Sam pulls Dean's hand to his mouth, licks hungrily at the scattered drops. Dean laughs, low and rough, and Sam nips at a finger. "Mine," he says.  
  
"Never been anything else," Dean says. His voice is matter-of-fact, just stating a simple truth, and when Sam kisses him, he can taste himself on Dean's tongue.  
  
***  
  
They walk back to the Impala together, close enough that their shoulders brush with each step, and Sam is struck by the irrational desire to take his brother's hand. He resists the urge, though he can't quite stop himself from pulling Dean in for another kiss as Dean fumbles for the keys, shamelessly rubbing his cock, already half-hard again, against Dean's thigh.  
  
"You're such a slut," Dean laughs, and Sam grins at him and slides his leg between Dean's, relishing Dean's sharp gasp.  
  
"Say it again," he demands, nuzzling into Dean's neck.  
  
"Blow me," Dean says, but when Sam, laughing, presses in for another kiss, he whispers something against Sam's lips. Sam can't make out the words, but Dean pulls him in closer, and there's nothing else he needs.


End file.
